


Sepulchre

by decanthrope



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anger, Character Study, Dark, Depression, Gen, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Hopeful Ending, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 06:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12382938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decanthrope/pseuds/decanthrope
Summary: The problem isn’t that he’s thinking about death at all. The problem is that when he does, there’s nobody who would miss him–not really.





	1. Draco

**Author's Note:**

> Set during sixth year, if the scene from Sectumsempra had gone a little different.

When he contemplates death, there’s nobody there that would miss him. Oh, there are people who would miss him–his mother certainly and probably even his father, but the thing is that there’s nobody he really cares about who would miss him.

The problem isn’t that he’s thinking about death at all. The problem is that when he does, there’s nobody who would miss him–not really. The problem is that there’s nobody for him to stick around for. There’s no name or face that pushes him back from the precipice. 

He doesn’t care about hurting his mother or father; the choices they’ve made his entire life have only made him miserable, and no matter how he picks it up and turns it over in his mind, his future can only be darkened by the name, his association, his very being. If his actions weren’t enough, his very existence would be spiteful to the world at large. In his future there can only be iron bars and locked doors.

He’s sure his life is just barely dangling at the tip of a hook somewhere in The Dark Lord’s mind. Maybe buried, but there. All that’s needed to push him over that precarious lip is for His attention to be brought to it. Every day that passes brings him closer and closer, especially with every report of his failure to make progress on both of his tasks.

It’s almost sweet, the idea of it–death. His own little revenge. He’s angry, but more than that, he’s exhausted.

He stares into his face in the mirror. He’s so sallow now–from fear and illness, and drained. There really isn’t anything worth going on for. He’d cry if his wretched body would allow him.

Death runs rampant through his mind as he fiddles listlessly with his wand at the sink. The wood is shiny and dark against his skin.

It would be easy to do it. Simple. He doesn’t want the drama of it, the fuss. He doesn’t care about his mortal body; they can feed his corpse to the dogs for all he cares. There’s little enough dignity for him in life, and none in death.

It’s tempting. All it would take is two little words. He has the intent, the desire. He wants to. He doesn’t want to be anymore. If he could just blink out of reality, completely cease to exist, he might be happy.

He tries a feeble smile, but it looks like his face is breaking, pulling apart at strategic seams, and he can’t help the helpless hopelessness that envelops him.

He raises his wand, just to see how it would feel. The wood of it is cool against his temple, his eyes are steady where they’re reflected back at him. He could do it. It wouldn’t take anything at all. The thought scares him as much as it thrills him, makes something tight and dense in his stomach twist and relax at the same time.

Avada kedava he thinks. Imagines his body slumping over. Wonders whether he’d see his eyes go lifeless or whether that would just be it–over just like that. His throat tightens with the desire and fear. He wants it. He wants it so badly, his body is fixed in place with this terrifying hunger for silence.

When he contemplates death, the only thing he can feel is ready.

When he contemplates death, he thinks of freedom.

When he contemplates death, there’s nothing and no one to hold him back from taking the step.

When he contemplates death, it’s easy.

He draws in breath–his last. It’s sweet, almost beautiful. He’s not scared anymore. Even the Malfoy that looks steadily back at him is at peace.

His reflection smiles at him.

“Malfoy!” Potter shouts.


	2. Harry

Harry’s a lost boy in a turbulent sea of things that belong. He’s constantly pushed by the tumultuous waves that remind him that he’s not right—that he’s lost—he doesn’t fit. He’s the odd one out.

Everybody seems to have a place where they slot neatly into their own niche, somewhere comfortable, even if they don’t necessarily realise.

He’s surrounded by peers whose parents love them, staff whose purpose is clear, people who seem to just know what their lot in life is and are easily reaching out to grasp it in their own hands. Harry has none of that. He’s never really had parents—not really. He doesn’t know what he’s meant to do in life, has no idea who he is.

He aches desperately for some indication, some clue, a sign, anything, to steer him in the right direction. He selfishly wants something to cling to, to affirm that he has the right to exist, and to exist happily. So far, the prize for all his trials, his endless ‘why’, has been pain. Not a hint of happiness in sight.

Sometimes he can convince himself that being content is very nearly almost the same as being happy. Sometimes it works, but mostly it doesn’t and he’s left floundering in insecurity and frustration and overwhelming rage. He rages against life, fate, history, destiny.

More and more, he’s starting to think that there isn’t really a point to anything. The more he tries, the harder he runs, the further his goals seem to be, the more it’s like he’s chasing himself in an endless circle.

‘What’s the point?’ is scary.

‘What’s the point?’ is the springboard for understanding how Tom Riddle became Voldemort.

‘What’s the point?’ is the stepping stone for Harry to stray from everything that’s good and (supposedly) righteous and into darker things. Things that make Dumbledore’s eyes stop twinkling and McGonagall’s brow furrow and Snape’s expression twist into self-satisfied hubris that lead to Harry wondering if he really isn’t like his father after all: cruel, a bully, a stone’s throw from something more sinister.

The farther he tries to distance himself from it all, the easier it is to understand how people can fall into it.

He dares not mention any of what he’s thinking to Hermione or Ron. He knows how they’d look at him, with so much pity and disappointment, and maybe even fear. The very thought of it makes him sick, and so it festers inside him until he’s choking on anger.

Everything makes him so angry, it’s like there’s a whirlpool of resentment that just whips up the small things and uses them as fuel and fodder to make it bigger and stronger and darker inside him, a maelstrom of ugly intent that leaves him feeling barely human.

He’s lost and he knows that people care for him, want the best for him, love him, but sometimes it’s not enough, and that scares him most. The lines that separate him from what he fears and hates most blur and get fuzzy and sometimes he goes days in a streak wondering if he’s Harry Potter or Voldemort.

The Wizarding World designates him a hero in their fervent asseverations, but if they only knew the truth….

Not even Rita Skeeter could come up with anything pernicious enough to really, truly describe how foul he really is.

The only person to unadulteratedly see him as he is is Malfoy. Like calls to like, or so they say.

He’s a kindred spirit—of sorts. These days, Malfoy seems just as lost and broken as Harry has always been. It makes him giddy. Something shivers under his skin to know that he’s not alone, even as a splenetic, venomous part of him can’t help but delight at the sight of him so broken down, so listless, so disturbingly pathetic.

Malfoy being weak makes him feel strong, and that scares him, too.

The worse off Malfoy gets, the more enraptured he becomes. Suddenly, he’s on tenterhooks waiting for Malfoy to fall apart. He’s feverishly obsessed—has to see this through, see how it ends. Will Malfoy give in? Will he fold like a coward at Voldemort’s feet? Will he break apart completely and desert Harry on his island of lost and broken things to a place he can’t follow? He has to know.

The times he feels most himself is when he’s observing Malfoy, and these days he always is. At night, he watches his map, staring for hours at the prints labelled “Draco Lucius Malfoy”.

He hadn’t known—before all of this began—that you could watch someone have nightmares on the map. Now that he knows, with the evidence right before his eyes night after night after night, a sickening miasma of solicitude creeps up his oesophagus and strangles him from the inside. The invisible threads that bind them together tighten, building up the intangible rapport that glues Harry to him.

Somehow, somewhere, he’s become invested.

The creeping violence that threatens to consume him has lessened. For once, he can breathe, can think, bite back the desire to pluck the veins out of his body and strum them like a guitar just to see if there’s anything he can do to feel less mad, more alive.

Malfoy does this to him. Malfoy is his catalyst. This he knows instinctively, like he instinctively knows to draw air into his lungs. It shudders through him, is in the shadow in his being, is part of him now.

He wants Malfoy to be broken—just as broken as Harry is and has ever been—but no more than that. He has to be only as mad as Harry, because otherwise he’ll be lost again, left behind and unable to reconcile the loneliness of being the only one again.

For the first time in his life, he fits, and what he wouldn’t give to keep that feeling. Harry has always been selfish. He refuses to let that go now that it’s in his grasp. He’ll do anything—anything—to keep that feeling inside himself. He wants to swallow it and keep it under his heart in the prison of his ribs.

Malfoy is dead when he comes across him in the second storey girls’ toilet. He’s breathing and his heart is beating, but Malfoy is dead, and an indescribable fear surges through Harry at the sight.

He’s not lost anymore; he’s moved on, found new purpose. He’s left Harry, and he’s going to leave forever.

A burning inferno erupts inside him.

He can’t. Harry isn’t ready. Harry won’t let Malfoy leave him.

If he’s broken, he’ll have to give him a reason to live.

He sucks air into his lungs and lets all the fury rip out of his body in one desperate shout.


End file.
